it body. Sultry lips. Legs for miles. This is how the
general public would like to view the female recording
artist, with an impossible expectation of eternal youth.
But in today’s visually obsessed world, female artists
are being judged solely on looks and the inevitable
progression of time as opposed to their talent.
Madonna’s performance at the 2012 Super Bowl in February
is the most recent example of the harsh ridicule a legendary female
artist must face when the age factor hits. According to Billboard.
com, Madonna’s event had “10,245 tweets per second, one of the
busiest moments in Twitter history.”
Fiona Sturges recently reported in The Independent.uk that
there were slews of tweet bashings headed Madonna’s way after the
televised event, none about her actual performance, solely on her
appearance. John Milleker from Maryland tweeted, “Good News:
Unlike Lady Gaga, Madonna didn’t wear crusty, old meat as a
dress. Bad News: She is wearing crusty, old meat as skin.”
Yet in 2010, when The Who performed at the halftime Super
Bowl show, a the majority of comments, according to an article
published in February 2010 in Rolling Stone, were positive.

38 Substance Spring 2012

Comments like “Truly an example of live arena rock!” or “There
was plenty of energy there and Daltrey hit the only note that
matters: the HEY at the end of ‘Won’t Be Fooled Again.’ Rock on!”
with no mention of the age factor. Lead singer Roger Daltry is 67
and his fellow band members are all in their late 60s.
Sturges recalled her interview with lead singer Siouxsie Sioux
from Siouxsie and the Banshees that turned sour after she asked an
age-related question.
“I interviewed Siouxsie Sioux, then 46, and rightly got a flea
in my ear for asking if she had considered retirement. She pointed
out that I would never have asked a 46-year-old man the same
question,” she said.
So why all the bashing when it comes to women of a certain
age performing as rockstars or pop stars? Denisse Hernandez, a
23-year-old biochemistry major, said that female artists need to
tone down their looks when they age. She is a fan of Madonna’s but
said she shouldn’t perform the way she used to 20 years ago.
“She shouldn’t as an artist now wear her cone bra. She
can still perform but not go out and dress the way she used to,”
Hernandez said.

Professor of journalism Toni Albertson disagreed.
“Who is making these rules and why should women have to
follow these rules?” Albertson said.
Albertson worked in the music industry for two decades and
spent her 30s on the Sunset Strip in Hollywood as a promoter and
magazine editor. She said there is a double standard that existed
then, and now.
“It would always amaze me how wrinkled up prunes like Mick
Jagger or Robert Plant were praised for their music and never
once critiqued for prancing around in short tight cut off T-shirts
showing their bellies, but God forbid a female rock musician over
40 do the same,” Albertson said.
Founding member of The Runaways, Joan Jett, now 53, said
she grew up in a world where girls were told not to play rock and
roll. She still plays music but on her own terms and said in a 2006
article in the Los Angeles Times that she has been ridiculed for still
playing rock music at her age.
“So now 20 years later people want us to get together so they
can take shots at all these old babes trying to get back some youth.
I mean come on; I’ve been there. I know what the press would do.”
Jett regrouped with the Blackhearts for a 2007 sold out world
tour, opening for Aerosmith and continues to put out new music.
But the media are not always welcoming to these legends of rock.
Take writers like Judy Berman from Flavorwire who label
Madonna and other female artists like Aretha Franklin and
Stevie Nicks as nostalgia acts. It is almost as if they are asking
these talented artists to go away after they are no longer topping
the charts. Berman refers to these women as “coasting by on
songs they recorded decades ago.” She credits women who are
multitalented such as Patti Smith and Joni Mitchell who have
“moved outside the mainstream or into new media” by becoming
authors and painters. Mitchell, a renowned folk singer who began
her career in the 60s and later expanded to jazz and pop rock,
has influenced artists from Robert Plant to Feist, to Neil Young to
Prince.
In a 2009 Los Angeles Times article, Mitchell, now 68, said
she does not have much respect for today’s commercial artists,
especially Madonna, but not because of her sexed up image.
Mitchell said, “Americans have decided to be stupid and
shallow since 1980. Madonna is like Nero; she marks the turning
point.”
Maggie Worsley, professor of music appreciation and a
clarinetist, said that perfection is the focus for women in today’s
media.
“With plastic surgery, botox, and starvation a set norm for
celebrities, the media’s focus has been on the perfect woman.
Aging females don’t fit that mold and are therefore attacked.”
Worsley said that she has seen ageism in her own career.
“I’ve seen the aging orchestral boot-out thing a lot,” Worsley
said.
She added that older players are not only scolded in private,
but can be asked to leave the group entirely.
“It’s sad, but some would argue that it maintains artistic

integrity. If an older person can’t hack the part, and a younger
person can, there’s only one thing to do... get out the shotgun. Just
kidding! But it’s a metaphorical shotgun if you take someone’s
livelihood away, isn’t it?” she said. “What’s thrilling however, are
those older musicians who keep practicing their asses off and still
sound amazing.”
While many female artists turn to plastic surgery, Stevie
Nicks, 63, admitted in an interview with CBS that she tried Botox
but never will again.
“I had Botox and I hated it. For four long months, I looked
like a different person. It almost brought down the whole
production of the last tour. It was so bad, I would look into the
mirror and burst into tears,” Nicks said.
In a Rolling Stone article published September 2010, Nicks
talked about her 2011 album release “In Your Dreams,” and her
long career.
“At a certain point, I’m going to get too old for this, but
making this album really shows that I’m not done yet.”
Mt. SAC music department chair Dr. Jason Chevalier cited
the beginning of MTV in 1981 and said, “Remember, the first
video played was Video Killed the Radio Star, with the implication
that the visual imagery is now equal to or more important than
actual talent.” Chevalier also said, “Ageism implies the intentional
exclusion of some…it is the fascination with youth and all things
trendy and new that perpetuates the exclusion of the old and
dated.”
For Ann Wilson, who rose to fame in the 1970s with her sister
Nancy in the rock band Heart, MTV nearly destroyed her career
and her self-esteem. While appearance has always mattered in
show business, MTV took it to a whole new level. In an interview
with CBS in 2006, Wilson said that being a heavy female rock star
was just bad business. She said she was under constant pressure
to lose weight and that stylists would dress her in ways to disguise
her size, or would film her hidden in a shadow. She said in the
interview, “I was surrounded all these people who undermined my
confidence.” Musicians, not only in the mainstream pop and rock
worlds face the label of ageism but also those in the classical realm.
Female music legends still have their admiring young fans.
Jessica Rosas, a 20-year-old fashion major, is a fan of Lita Ford,
Stevie Nicks, and Ann and Nancy Wilson, all women who have
held their own in the music world for years.
“I feel that women musicians aren’t taken seriously because
it’s a man’s world,” Rosas said. “It’s sad how they get judged and
ridiculed because of their age and just because they are women.
Women should get more credit than they are given in the music
world.”
Debbie Harry, described as a sex symbol since her days as
lead singer of the New Wave/punk band Blondie, described to
Telegraph.co.uk the challenges of aging.
“Oh yes, sure, it’s hard. Regardless of what I say about trying
to be better at what I do, I rely on looks a lot. Women’s calling
cards, unfortunately, are based on their looks.”
brigette villaseñor

“We were the only artists able to work with Eazy E, Pac, and
Biggie. “That’s a blessing not many artists can say that,” Krayzie
said.
But even with all the fame, Krayzie still manages to keep his
down-to earth personality.
“I don’t want to think I’m on top of everybody…for everyone
to label us as legends, that’s for the people to decide and if that’s
what they are saying then I ain’t gonna deny it,” Krayzie said.
Krayzie remembered the days he spent recording with Tupac
and Biggie. It was during the time when there was a huge East
Coast versus West Coast hip-hop rivalry and Tupac and Biggie
were at the epicenter.
“It was ironic they both had beef and we worked with both
of them and then two weeks later they passed away so it was real
crazy, real eerie,” Krayzie said.
Today, there is a lot of controversy about how much hip-hop
has music has changed, some say for the worse. While some blame
technology, others blame the new generation or a combination of
the two. Krayzie has his own take on today’s hop-hop scene.
“I feel like a lot of artists today don’t respect the art because
they don’t really have to work for it. So people just look at it as
a way to make money real quick, just like selling drugs, you can
make a quick dollar over here doing this, say anything on a beat; as
long as the beat is good, we good”.
Bone Thugs are currently working on a big project for their
20-year anniversary.
“We are planning to do something real special whether it be
making a new album or a world tour,” Krayzie said.
Bone Thugs fans have been anticipating this day and it is
finally in progress. The group is also planning to share unreleased
music from the mid to late 1990s. Krayzie said he is just grateful
for being a part of such an incredible era.
“That era that we were in will probably never be seen again…
It feels good to come from that era and still be here.”
-AnAlisse De leon

-

egends never die, legends or fade away, and in some cases,
the more years that pass the greater their respect amongst
fans grow. This is the case of Bone Thugs –N- Harmony,
who are back and better than ever.
Krayzie Bone, from the musical rap group Bone Thugs –NHarmony, reunited with his group this summer at Rock The Bells,
one of the biggest hip-hop festivals, created new designs for his
clothing line The Life Apparel, and released a new solo album on
Nov. 20 called “Chasing The Devil.” Next year, Bone Thugs will hit
their 20-year mark and there are exciting projects to expect from
them.
Krayzie Bone and group member Wish Bone recently toured
in Canada and just came back from Sweden a couple of weeks ago.
“It is so crazy the response they get in these different
countries around the world, like there are people who don’t even
know English singing word for word at these shows,” said Art
Serrano, art director of The Life Apparel.
While in Sweden they visited and spoke to schools about the
music industry and said they had a very good response.
Bone Thugs –N- Harmony grew up together in Cleveland,
Ohio where they met and created the rap group in while in junior
high school. They rapped in front of any crowd they could, any
chance they got. They originally formed a group called “The Band
Aid Boys” and performed at talent shows.
In 1991, Krayzie received a call from rap legend Eazy E,
rapped for him and immediately flew out to Los Angeles with the
group members. The rest is history.
“He was our mentor and for him to actually be the one to
discover us, that was a dream come true,” Krayzie said.
Krayzie added that he is still very appreciative towards
rap legend Eazy E, who helped pave the way for his career that
consisted of several Grammy nominations and over 50 million
albums sold.
Bone Thugs are most commonly known for being the only
rap artists to work with rap legends: Tupac, Biggie, and Eazy E.

Substance Spring 2012 41

PAPER PAMPHLETS
-

A tale of life change

“Y

our particular combination of disorders can be difficult to treat,” the doctor told me, handing
me three paper pamphlets. I looked down at the pamphlets with confusion. How could all
of my problems possibly be explained in those small folded pieces of paper? They felt so
thin and limp in my hands. So unimportant. But the bold black titles shouted out at me
mockingly: “Overcoming Panic Disorder,” “Coping with Manic-Depressive Disorder,” “Obsessive Compulsive
Disorder and Your Life.” The sharp, carefully pressed corners stabbed into my hands as I clutched them
tightly, trying not to cry when the psychiatrist explained the course of treatment.

42 Substance Spring 2012

I have always known I was a little bit crazy, but sitting there
in that overstuffed chair, in that unnaturally bright room, holding
the proof in my hands, made my stomach sink to my feet. My
life had been reduced to these three thin pamphlets. The person
who had walked into that office and sat in that oversized charcoal
armchair disappeared when the pamphlets were handed to me. As
I flipped through the pages, my identity started to slip slowly away.
My thoughts turned into symptoms. My traits became “indicators
of mental instability.” My actions were now “obsessive rituals.”
Everything about me, everything that made me who I was, had
become little black words printed on plain white paper folded into
three small pamphlets.
As the words made their way from the off white pages to my
mind and sunk deep into my brain, I felt myself disappearing,
growing smaller. I was a sapling, weak and flexible. I was a flower,
small and wilting. I was a tiny bean sprout, so delicate that I could
be crushed with the slightest touch.
“We can start you off with a low dose anti-depressant,” Dr.
Saheed said as he took the booklet of prescription forms out of his
desk and began scratching something out.
“Would you like Celexa, Zoloft, Lexapro, Cymbalta…?” he
trailed off.
I still could not think, could not comprehend what was
happening to me. My brain was still swimming with the bold black
titles and endless symptoms, and now he had thrown more foreign
words into the pool of problems. All I wanted was to control my
problems, and now my problems controlled me. I shook my head in
an attempt to clear my mind and swallowed around the dry lump in
my throat.
“Um, the first one, I guess,” I answered with a hoarse whisper.
He scribbled the name down.
“When you come back next month, we can double the dose and
add a mood stabilizer.”
The sound of the paper as he ripped it quickly from the booklet
cracked around me like a bullwhip.
As I added the little slip of paper to my stack of pamphlets,
Dr. Saheed explained the side effects of the drug. Severe nausea,
uncontrollable shaking, muscle pain and weakness, loss of
appetite, vomiting, increased anxiety, abnormal bleeding, irregular
heartbeat… The list went on and on and on. After a while I wasn’t
really listening anymore. I felt numb. I just wanted all of the words
to stop. I wanted to rewind, to go back to the moment before I
stepped into that office. I wanted to go back to a time when I did
not know I was crazy. I wanted to go back to when I was still myself
and the most I had to worry about was what to wear to the movie
date with my boyfriend that weekend.
I closed my eyes for a moment, the doctor’s voice still droning
on in the background like white noise, and I tried to pretend that
I was dreaming. I had not gone to the appointment yet. I was still
lying in my bed, perfectly normal and not crazy. Any moment
now I was going to wake up and remember the terrible nightmare
that I had. And I was going to get up and get ready and go to my
boyfriend’s house instead of my appointment. We would watch TV
and lay down and I would tell him about the horrible dream and he
would tell me that it was just a dream and I was not crazy. He would
play with my hair and I would smile and relax and forget all about
the paper pamphlets.
“Susan?” My pretend world faded away at the sound of
my name. “Susan?” I opened my eyes and my heart sunk. I was not
dreaming. I was not lying down. No one was playing with my hair.

And I was still crazy. Dr. Saheed was staring at me with concerned
eyes. I looked at my reflection in his glasses and saw myself just as
I was; tiny, trapped and transparent. My heart broke in two at the
sight of the little girl stuck in those lenses like an innocent child in
prison. She looked so sad and broken, so lost and alone. And she
was so small. Am I really that small? I looked down at my shaking
hands, then at my feet, barely touching the scratchy carpet beneath
me. They looked normal. They were neither tiny nor shrunken. I
appeared to be the exact same size as I was when I had walked into
that office. But I didn’t feel like it. I felt just as small as the girl in
the glasses.
Dr. Saheed cleared his throat. It was as loud as a gunshot in
the silent room.
“Did you hear what I said?”
I tried to say no, but no sound would come out of my dry
throat. I just shook my head.
“My main concern here is your age. In adolescents and young
adults, this drug can have a high risk of suicidal thoughts or actions.
I’m prescribing it to you because I feel the positive outcomes will
outweigh the negative possibilities. But it is very important that
you call me immediately and stop taking this medication if you are
having any thoughts of suicide, do you understand?”
Fanfreakingtastic. I come here for thoughts of suicide, and
now I’ll be leaving with thoughts of suicide and a whole bunch of
unpleasant side effects to go with it. Brilliant. I nodded and Dr.
Saheed clapped his hands together.
“Alright then, I’ll see you in a month.”
I did not start crying until I pulled onto the freeway. And I
did not stop crying until I pulled up to my boyfriend Danny’s house.
He opened the door, smiling as always and kissed me on the cheek.
“How’d it go?”
I handed him the three pamphlets and watched fearfully
as he flipped through them. I waited for the shock, the surprise,
something. But it never came. He just looked up, still smiling.
“So you’re going to be alright? He gave you something to help
right?”
I nodded and handed him the prescription slip.
“Good.”
I looked at him incredulously, wondering if he had actually
read any of it. He walked past me and sat down, patting the spot on
the blanket next to him.
“Good?”
I finally found my voice. It came out a little cracked at first.
“I’m crazy. I’m not normal.”
Danny looked up at me and laughed, pulling me down next to
him.
“You are perfectly normal. Everyone has something wrong
with them.”
His words sank into me. For a brief second, I thought maybe
he was right, for a brief second, I considered the possibility that my
life was not changed by this, for a brief second, I imagined that I
was still exactly the same as I was when I woke up that morning.
That brief second was all it took for a little part of my identity to
return to me. And maybe someday soon, I thought, I will have all of
myself back again. Danny pulled me to his chest and started playing
with my hair.
“You’re not crazy.”
For the first time that day, I smiled. And I relaxed. And I forgot
all about the paper pamphlets.
—SUSAN VANNATTA

THE PAINTED WOMAN
-

Escaping a tragic portrait of love

44 Substance Spring 2012

I

remember the first time I fell in love.
We were 17 and she was sitting at her easel, working on a painting of a California condor
with a color palette reminiscent of an acid trip. I was lying on her living room floor, watching
in a daze and attempting to write a few weak lines of a poem I’d been unsuccessfully been
trying to finish. She never knew how many I wrote just about the red of her hair and the music of
her laughter.
We traded secrets back and forth, listening to Jenny Lewis, spilling our guts to each other
about our antidepressants and insecurities without fear of repetition or judgment. I’ve never
been hit by a freight train, but I imagine it’s something like the way I felt that day. She turned,
blushing, and told me that she was fascinated by me, enough that she hinted less-than-subtlety
that she wanted to paint my portrait, a request she had never asked of anyone else. In that
moment I retreated back into the shell she had tried so hard to break through over the course of
the month I’d known her. Incorporating me in her art was the most personal form of affection.
More so than sex, a currency she spent freely. To sit and be a part of the thing she was so
passionate about sounded terrifying; I declined, and it ranks as one of my worst regrets. When
I’m being honest with myself, I think it was just that I didn’t want to know how she really saw me.
That, and I didn’t want her to immortalize me in acrylics just to throw me away like a model after
a cheap photo shoot. I didn’t want my novelty value to wear off just yet, and if she was looking at
a portrait of me hanging in her apartment every day, how could it not? I saw the way she would
make men fall in love with her, just to have her drop them after a month of fun when they could
no longer hold her interest. I couldn’t stand the thought of her doing that to me.
A year and a half passed, and we grew closer. “Best friends,” we would tell people who were
confused by how much time we spent together. She wasn’t accustomed to the idea that women
could love other women as much, if not more so, than they could love a man, and had been raised
to think that it was inappropriate in every way. But I knew, and everyone around us knew, what
she was really struggling with in that secretive little mind of hers, even if she was too afraid to
express it. We slept in the same bed three to four times a week and went everywhere together. She
took me to events that would normally be reserved for her boyfriends; they went uninformed,
and I was her date. No one else mattered to me. Family, my friends, all fell by the wayside when
it came to this girl. She eclipsed all and consumed my every thought. I was like a junkie needing
her fix over and over again but was never satisfied with what I got. It did hurt, thinking that every
time she said, “I love you,” it meant something different than when I would reluctantly reply.
Eventually I got tired of waiting for her to accept herself and began seeing a handsome,
brilliant, caring man. While he didn’t initially elicit the same emotional responses that she did,
he treated me like a princess. That was enough for me. Nine months later we were about to move
to Los Angeles together. It wasn’t until I was two days away from leaving that she came clean and
finally admitted that she liked girls, me in particular.
And thus I was faced with an impossible choice; the one I’d always wanted and the one who
deserved me.
In the end my brain overrode my heart and I left with him to LA. I couldn’t follow someone
through the dark any longer, not when they were so utterly lost with no hope, no light. Two
broken people can’t fix one another. They can make something brief and beautiful, like an
elaborately painted vase laden with hairline cracks, but in the end it wasn’t going to hold any
water. I was doing what was best for me, but I can’t say that I feel good about it. I had changed
her life and then abandoned her at the moment of her revelation, her weakest, most vulnerable
stage of the cycle I’d encouraged her to begin. For this I’m still ashamed. We still maintained
half-hearted contact for a year or so after I left, and my feelings have only recently faded after
completely cutting her out of my life. But she’s like a stain on your favorite shirt; it may lose some
color, but it’s never truly gone.
It’s been four years since I watched her paint that bird. Eventually I realized that she’s like
Santa Claus; at some point I just had to grow up and stop believing in her.
Since I’ left, she’s done nothing but destroy herself for the simple reason that she could.
Foreign elements to her, like hard drugs, pornography, prostitution and flippancy are now
hardwired into her lifestyle, and she’s no longer the person I adored, just a gross imitation, a
knock-off brand of the only thing that I had ever loved more than myself. Now she sleeps with
married men in motel rooms and desperate women in a cold brick building while being broadcast
via webcam. All in the name of money, or “survival,” as she called it. She doesn’t sit at her easel any
longer, asking for my opinions and listening to Jenny Lewis. She doesn’t confess her secrets and
faults to a person she barely knows but inexplicably trusts.
That girl is dead, but her memory haunts me to this day.
—Sarah Venezio

-

T

NOT YOUR AVERAGE JOE
Nick Montana’s future starts with Mt. SAC

he Y chromosome of one of the greatest quarterbacks
to ever play the game of football is coming to Mt. SAC.
Nick Montana has transferred to Mt. SAC from the
University of Washington to try and help the Mounties
regain the status of state and national champions. If
the Montana name rings a bell, it should.
Nick is the son of Joe Montana, a Hall of Famer and Super
Bowl champion quarterback who appeared in four Super Bowls
for the San Francisco 49ers, winning every game. Mt. SAC football
fans are hoping Nick will bring some of that Montana magic to
the Mounties football team. Nick dove into his football career
in fourth grade. It wasn’t until seventh grade that he decided to
make the switch from linebacker to quarterback.
“There was no pressure from my dad or anything, I just kind
of started liking it,” he said.
Nick played his high school football at Oaks Christian in
Westlake Village, Calif. He grew up in the San Francisco Bay area,

46 Substance Spring 2012

where his last name carries a legendary ring to it.
After completing his high school career, Nick committed to
the University of Washington.
He played at Washington for two seasons, red shirting his
freshman season. Red shirting means the season does not count
against the four years of eligibility every athlete is allowed to play
under NCAA regulations.
Nick was backup quarterback to Washington Huskies starter
Keith Price and appeared in six of the 13 games for the Huskies.
He had one start in the season coming in the game versus Oregon.
He went 12 for 22 in that game with 145 yards passing. He decided
to transfer out of Washington to Mt. SAC due to a lack of playing
time.
“Unfortunately there was someone ahead of me a year older,
he was going to be there another two years so I figure you only get
four years at it I’d rather go somewhere I can play then go on from
there.”

This will be the first time that Nick has attended a
community college.
“I had no idea about junior college so I talked to some people
and they recommended a handful of schools,” he said.
So why Mt. SAC? The Mounties football programs recent
success contributed to Nick’s decision.
“The coaches were a lot more organized, it was the closest
program that resembled what a division one would be like in terms
of the offense coaching style and organization of the program,” he
said.
The Mounties have won two state and national
championships in the last three years. Last year Mt. SAC came
up short in the state championship game against San Francisco
Community College.
Montana will be bringing a lot of talent and knowledge to
the Mt. SAC football team. He said that he learned a lot in his two
years at the University of Washington. He also said that playing
at a division one school will give him a competitive edge. He
explained:
“I learned a lot of intelligence like reading defenses, it was a
pro style offense so they ask us to know a bunch of stuff so being
able to retain all that information and use it has helped a lot.
How much information you have to retain as far as the playbook,
reading defense, you’ve got to know the other team as well as your
guys.”
This is valuable experience that cannot be taught overnight.
Nick said the concepts he learned up at Washington will translate
well to the junior college level.
“Wherever you go it’s a lot of the same concepts, some
systems are more sophisticated than others. Playing against some
of the D1 teams will help a lot at the junior college level,” Nick said.

Through all of his talent and success Montana keeps a level
head and a humble heart; he knows he still has room to improve
and weapons to add to his athletic arsenal.
“There’s a lot of things I can work on: decision making,
reading defenses, the list goes on.”
Montana has been working on the weaker aspects to his
game.
“I worked with the offensive coordinator Coach Muss, he
worked a lot with me. Everything to do from footwork to film
study.”
One season later, with a change of scenery from wet and
windy Washington to sunny Southern California. Montana looks
forward to starting his career as a Mountie.
“It’s been fun meeting a whole group of guys and getting to
bond with quarterbacks, receivers, and everyone.”
When Montana has trouble with an aspect of his game
he doesn’t have to look far for sound advice. A Hall of Fame
quarterback is only a phone call away at all times. It doesn’t hurt
that it’s his dad either.
“He’s a great source for me to have, if I ever need some help
he’s a pretty good source to go to.”
Nick utilzes having a Super Bowl champion quarterback as
a father.
“He has taught me a lot, the biggest thing I got from him is
how to hold yourself as a quarterback, everything that goes into
leadership, being around the team, and holding yourself off the
field,” Nick said.
This will most likely be Nick’s only year at Mt. SAC.
“My plan is to graduate in December,” he said.
He is pursuing a degree in business.
—Corey esquivel

THE RECESSIONISTA
Staying stylish during hard times

T

he recession is not an excuse for a sartorial drought. If anything the budget limitations can
be an opportunity to get creative and examine which pieces in your closet matter most. Keeping it simple can be as easy as going into your closet and pulling out what you already have.

Communications major Kristina Gonzalez, 22, models her favorite summer looks—pulled from her
personal closet built on thrift store steals—and paired with her favorite accessory: her smile.

NOTE: This should be done on a warm day.
WHAT YOU NEED:
10 sheets of 400 grit water based sandpaper, (the number 400 will be printed on the sandpaper and it is usually black; they come in
the size of sheet of paper).
A bucket of water.
10 cans of primer paint (Home Depot sells good quality primer paint).
3-4 rolls of one-inch masking tape.
Some old newspapers.
A painter’s mask (you can also get this at Home Depot).
STEP 1: Cut the sandpaper. Each sheet into four pieces about 5 x 4 inches. Cut one at a time as needed because you can take the
leftovers back to the store.
STEP 2: Dip the sandpaper in water one little square of sandpaper at a time, and sand the paint off your car slowly until it becomes
dull. Be sure to keep it wet at all times and use only one piece at a time. You will be able to see and feel the wear of sandpaper and you will
know when you need another piece. Be careful with all of the chrome parts and windows. When sanding your scratches and dings, sand
around in circular motion until scratches are gone. You will see your old paint fade away; this is what you want to happen. When finished
sanding the car, it should look dull.
STEP 3: Wash the car and dry it.
STEP 4: Use the old newspapers and masking tape to mask off your windows, chrome, tires, and car parts that you don’t want to get
primer paint on. Be sure to park the car away from things you do not want primer spray on and keep kids away from the paint spray.
STEP 5: Put on the painter’s mask.You must cover your mouth and hair, and wear some old clothes. It is time to spray!
STEP 6: Shake the can well for about 3 minutes and start first by spraying the top of your car. Next spray the hood, trunk, and then
the sides of your car fenders and doors. Be careful with spray cans because they are flammable and no smoking or drinking! Do not leave
cans unattended. Store them away in a cool place when finished. You may want to take leftover cans back to the store. Let the paint dry for
at least two hours before the taking tape and newspaper off.
STEP 7: Now peel the tape off your chrome and windows carefully and slowly.
Good luck!
—Felipe navarro

Substance Spring 2012 53

-

Pictured: Alex Urquidez

FROM
BRUISES TO
ARPEGGIOS

54 Substance Spring 2012

When life hit hard for one student,the guitar
served as both shelter and escape

M

y life changed the day I started
playing guitar. I was involved in
many things that I should not have
been, mostly gang-related issues
like selling elicit drugs to people and
tagging up the walls of my city with
my tagger name. The reasons why I
did these things was pretty clear. Growing up in my family
was never easy. My older sibling and I were in a foster home
when we were children due to negligence on our mother’s
part. This was the worst experience of my life. Not only
were these people negligent, they were abusive bastards
You know those pictures of brothers walking and holding
hands? That was us. Just two little boys.
What these people did was so repulsive it still gives me
night terrors to this day. They would grab us by our hands
and throw us in separate rooms and sometimes they would
throw me in the closet. Lights out, pitch black, unable to
speak. I have never told anyone about this until writing
this piece. My aunts told us stories of how they would visit
us and see the bruises but the foster parents would say we
just fell. Those were lies they used to cover the beatings.
I can recall this one event because the reoccurring night
terror is so terrible that it makes me shake just thinking
about it. I remember being so scared at one point that I hid
under a bed because they were looking for me. They pulled
me out from under the bed by my leg, my belly scraping
the rug. “There you are you little ass!” I remember it so
vividly. I was only 3 at the time but I still remember it. How
could someone so young remember this? It’s simple. Some
memories just haunt you forever.
We eventually were put back into our mother’s
arms. Having us taken away from her made her change.
From then on life seemed like it was getting easier. Or
so I thought. From the period of time when I was in
kindergarten to about the fifth grade, I was a great student.
Being in the fourth grade and reading at an eighth grade
level is something that every parent hopes to see in a child.
I was advanced in math, reading and also able to pick up
a musical instrument and play it. I was a prodigy. I was in
four different classes to adhere to my level of schooling.
That all changed mid year in fifth grade. The California
standards were raised. I now had to learn what the sixth
graders were learning. This transition was horrible. I was
a very shy kid and never asked for help when I needed it.
I fell behind in all my classes. My great academic progress
was lost. My parents saw me as a f **k up. It seemed that no
matter how hard I tried to get back on track, I just could
not do it.
Somehow, I made it to junior high school. This is
where everything bad that could happen, happened. I was
distracted in class because I never knew what to do so I
talked to the “bad students.” I quickly became one of them,
getting in trouble, stealing stuff, talking back to the teacher,
getting referrals, suspension. I got into the eighth grade and
this is where I had my first encounter with drugs. My friend
brought some weed to school and I had never smoked in
my life. “Do you want some?” he said. I didn’t know what
to say. I didn’t want to look like an idiot, so I smoked. I

missed two classes that day, but I didn’t care. Everything
felt so great at that moment. I was relaxed and did not care
about anything. After about two months my friend told me
I could make money. What junior high schooler doesn’t
want money? I asked him how and he said, “ See that guy
over there? Go take this to him.” I walked over and gave
him the little sack. He handed me money! Not realizing
I had just made my first deal, I picked up on how it was
done and who to sell to. I learned who were the rats and
who were the stoners. I eventually became known by a local
gang member who was originally from Los Angeles. He
introduced me to these older guys who I never met before
and they asked me if I knew my city well enough to walk
around at night. I said yes.
I started selling this stuff in bigger increments,
making about $200 bucks a night working four days a
week. I was doing great. I was in deep and didn’t even
know until that first day when I had a gun pointed at me.
This feeling was so intense, so shocking, so terrifying,
that I couldn’t move. I lost $100 in profit. I went back
to my partner, the guy who I thought I could trust, and
told him what had happened. He pulled a gun on me and
said, “If you ever lose any profit again…” He didn’t finish
his sentence, he just smiled and said,“ Don’t let it happen
again.”
School was only getting worse my freshman year in
high school so my parents started home schooling me. I had
no way of speaking to any of my friends. I was depressed.
The drug abuse got worse. The next step was coke. I was
doing terrible. My only escape was the drugs now that my
friends were gone. Shortly after my sophomore year, my
parents bought me a guitar.
This is when I realized that I did not need drugs to
feel great. Playing guitar was my therapist. It was my new
love, my life. I was able to put all the mixed emotions I
had buried inside into my songs. Thoughts of suicide still
ran through my head and still do to this day. I try to keep a
smile on my face and just write about it.
And then my parents wanted to divorce. After years
of not communicating, it was no surprise to me. The day I
found out was the day they brought me into the living room
with all my other siblings. They explained to us that things
had not been working out for the past few years and that
they just did not feel they could go on the way they were.
I tried to stay strong but I couldn’t help but let out tears. I
thought everything was finally going to get better. This just
goes to show you things can turn bad quick. My thoughts of
suicide were just too much to bare. I started writing a song
that night: “And I’m on my own, have to find my way…”
It may not be a happy song, but I wrote it so I could
let my emotions out and people could understand me
though my music. My guitar has been my escape from life.
I learned that you do not need drugs to survive or to numb
the pain because in the end it comes back. Not only does
life throw some crazy things at you, but I believe the saying,
“To each their own,” and in my situation, this means that
people have their own escapes, something that helps relieve
the pain at least for a moment.
—AlexAnder UrqUidez

REHAB’S CENTER

A student's jouney leads to a clean future

-

I

walked into the Salvation Army adult rehabilitation center in
Pasadena. The first question I was asked was how long I had
been sober. I told the man at the window the truth: I drank
last night. “Do you really want to be here?” he asked. “Yes,” I
replied. “Then you better tell them you haven’t done anything
for at least three days.”
I was blown away that he was telling me how to lie to get in,
but I soon found out that he was also a beneficiary and had come in
off the streets only a couple months prior.
I signed all the paperwork and gave them all of my
possessions. They gave me a bunch of secondhand clothes and
walked me in. I was now being breathalyzed by Ray, a short blueeyed Italian with slicked back hair. I thought he was an employee
by the way he looked, collared shirt, tie, well fed, and clean cut. I
later found out that he too was a “benny.” I would soon call myself
one too.
Ray told me the rules of the house and then showed me
where I would be sleeping for the next six months. It was a shabby
dormitory with five steel bunks and Astroturf for carpet. There was
no privacy, and the 50 people on this side of the building would
share the bathroom at the end of the hall. I thought to myself,
“Its better than puking myself to sleep behind the 7-eleven,” and I
smiled.
I walked back downstairs and Ray showed me where the box
was, that’s the 8x20 rectangle painted on the pavement out front
where can smoke, during certain hours. I smoked a cigarette and
walked into the dining room. They dished me up some leftovers
from lunch. I was amazed at how good they tasted. I realized how
long it had been since I had actually eaten. I had been living on a
mostly liquid diet now for about a year.
That first meal was when it hit me, everything that had gotten

56 Substance Spring 2012

me here. I had lied, cheated, and stolen from the ones I loved
just to hang out with a bunch of low-life’s and get loaded. I had
attacked my family in every way I could think of in an effort to get
them to forget about me; but in the end, when I had burned every
bridge and nobody would even look at me anymore, they were the
ones who picked me up; the ones that brought me here. I did not
begrudge them for not trying to help me anymore. I had tried 100
different ways to live my life the way I wanted, and failed. Now it
was time I started listening to someone else.
What I would learn over the next few months would change
my life forever. At first I thought they would just try to teach you
how to take care of yourself and get your stuff in order, like an
extended detox where they would just clean you up and get you
a job after. I thought of the bums on the street and how I always
thought if they were just cleaner, they could probably get a job and
start supporting themselves.
I would soon find out it there was more to this program than
meets the eye. I would hear the stories of many men and learn from
their experiences, strengths, and hopes; I would piece together my
own story and start and realize why I had strayed. There was more
to it than just alcohol and drugs, and I would find out that those
were only symptoms of the problem.
I was scared to death when I thought of life without drugs
and alcohol, but the turning point came when I realized I did not
have to worry about the rest of my life. I only had to worry about
what tomorrow would be like, and tomorrow didn’t look that bad
anymore. There was finally a light at the end of this long dark
tunnel, and it was not the headlight of an oncoming train. Every
day since that one is a little bit better than the last and every day I
can wake up and look forward to the best day of my life.
—Scott SchetSelaar

DOLPHIN DAZE

I

How alcohol, conversation, and a sea
mammal brought out the best in a friendship
drunk,” that night he was anything but happy. Almost immediately
after his words began slurring, his thoughts and his words turned
to despair. He said that he felt horrible about owing money, and
that I must feel like he was just using me.
Then he said that he needed friends like me because he
was distant from his family and I was one of the few whom he
could bond with. I knew that his relationship with his family was
difficult, but I didn’t realize how strained it was, how opposite it
was from my relationship with my parents.
“I’m so happy when you guys come over,” he said. “It’s pretty
much the only positive feeling, the only time I feel good, for the
whole week.”
I ended up hearing more of his difficulties and drove him
around to help him recover until 6 a.m., learning more about
someone whom I had not always seen as human or vulnerable up
until that point.
It was difficult to deal with him, even after that moment,
because he remembered nothing from that night – not even
vomiting an entire Denny’s breakfast at my curbside.
But as I argued with him I could also see the reality that I
was not being nearly forward enough. I wasn’t able to be honest
and forthcoming when he wanted to hang out. Sometimes I would
go to his house and do something half-assed, or I would say yes
and later cancel.
Most importantly, I was inept at connecting the dots when
it came to his family issues. I didn’t realize that so much of his
frustrations were due to his mother, father, brother and sister all
being difficult to interact with, even though I had seen all of them
and experienced it firsthand. And I did not tell him early enough
that although it is horrible that his family is distant and cold, I
cannot always replace them in the way that he wants.
That night I learned that even the most difficult people are
still human at their core, and in most cases they have a reason for
acting the way they do.
After that drunken daze, we still had our differences and
even the occasional impasse of not talking to one another, but the
issues lessened. Ultimately, he is a much more reasonable and
likable person today. Alcohol enabled me to understand people
a little more, but it has not aided anyone else in the process of
understanding me. I just dance more and say weirder stuff, which
is not exactly a game-changing revelation.
—Matthew Medina
substance Spring 2012 57

-Esau VillasEñor

saw a dolphin’s corpse wash up on the beach. Well, the
dolphin was completely unrelated to what changed my life.
But seeing the dolphin led to the life-changing moment.
I was at the beach late at night because my friends
wanted to find a secluded spot to drink, talk, and contemplate
life. We figured that there would be no better thing to accompany
alcohol than with a long walk on the beach.
As soon as we got out and approached the water, we found
the dolphin right away. We hurried to our getaway car, furiously
making an effort to avoid being implicated for the murder of an
underwater mammal. I made a mental note that I would not join
any exercise program that involved running in the sand, and we
drove back to a more local spot.
That spot was a hilly area behind a community with houses
good enough to be gated off. As a result, people occasionally snuck
their way onto one of the best hills behind the houses, with a view
of the suburbs and relatively little light pollution. It was so popular
that someone decided to take a couch up there. My friends did not
dare to touch it, concerned that there were mysterious stains all
over it. Still, I was sometimes tempted to sit on the couch, just to
have a moment of rest. I’m sure the stains were actually caused by
spilled alcohol and sporadic rainfall.
Then came the actual life-changing moment. It involved a
friend who frequently borrowed money and would take weeks,
even months to pay it back. He would also incessantly needle
me to hang out more often than a few times a week. There were
also several arguments in which he would question the way I
lived without looking at his. In other words, he was pretty damn
annoying.
He was enjoyed my senseless jokes, though, and he was
a good video game buddy. His spontaneous need to hang out
sometimes turned into wandering adventures that paid off with
intriguing results.
In the past we had clashed several times and ended up
creating several short-term periods in which we were not on
speaking terms – two weeks of silence that started with me
refusing to loan him money, one week caused by my annoyance
with his rather personal hypothetical questions, four days for some
reason I can’t even remember. Worse yet, most of our friends were
mutual, so this was almost a social shutdown.
He was a different person when influenced by alcohol, t
hough. Despite his insistence that he was normally a “happy

ROMANCE IN TRANSIT
Crush on a bus

T

-

his was ages ago last year. January, maybe March. We only rode the bus together
five times, only two times sitting together. The moment I laid eyes on you, I smiled
exuberantly, because you looked so nice. You were getting on the 190 at the Badillo
and Citrus Avenue bus stop, 9:15 a.m. on a Wednesday, heading to Mt. SAC. You
were one of the rare people getting on the bus who had not immediately wiped their nose of
â&#x20AC;&#x153;white Lindsay Loâ&#x20AC;? or put out a cigarette. You looked like the average super-cute thug King
Taco worker or student. You saw me smiling at you, and your face sort of lit up.

58 Substance Spring 2012

Your thug looks started with the signature royal blue LA
Dodgers cap, which sits on your head at the right angle to where
the light catches your glistening green eyes. You had a soul-patchtriangle-hairy-thing under your bottom lip, which I normally do
not tolerate on my Latino men, but you made it work. You wore
drab grayish-blue clothes that were slightly baggy. I had my wellknown “Jimmy Neutron” charcoal black hairstyle and OG tilted
ray-bans on. I was holding a cup of coffee that, true to Starbucks
tradition, kept spouting forth like a caffeinated geyser from the
tiny sippy hole in the top, scalding my hands as I attempted in vain
to dry off with a flimsy recycled paper napkin.
I think you had big balls. You sat right next to me. There
was genuine sexual tension, which is rare in Los Angeles County,
and even rarer on the bus. You smelled really good. I sat upright,
looking forward and not making eye contact, although I took off
my sunglasses so you wouldn’t think I looked like a spy. I might
have turned down my iPod shuffle so you wouldn’t know that I was
thoroughly enjoying my listen to Backstreet Boys’ “I Want it That
Way.” I didn’t make conversation. I just sat there and inhaled your
scent the whole way to school.
What was that sexual smell? It wasn’t cologne. I have bought
cologne before, and they do not make men’s cologne that smells
like this. Was it soap? Pine Sol? A particularly wonderful brand of
fabric softener and/or dryer sheet? I have searched in vain for the
scent since meeting you. I want to douse the rest of the bus riders
with it. Fuck, I’d spray it all over my Shih Tzu if I could distill it. It
was sweet, soft, but not girly. It was clean but not Febreezy.
The next Wednesday, you got on the bus and sat next to me.
Deliberately. There were dozens of empty seats on the bus, but you
chose to sit next to me. I blushed. You blushed. You smelled even
better. I might have even peed in my pants a little. You took out
a book and pretended to read it. That book everyone is reading,
Hunger Games or Games of Poverty or something by someone
with an Iranian/Afghani/Middle Eastern name. Khaled. Ahmed.
Whatever. I nervously asked you about the book. I think I made a
really stupid comment about how I can’t read on the bus because I
get car sick. This must have turned you on because I noticed your
pants tented. You tried to explain the plot of the book, and you
spoke very slowly and not particularly lucidly, in direct contrast to
my high-pitched but enunciated prattling.
It was obvious, probably to both of us but clearly to me, that
we were not romantically suited for each other nor was there any
intellectual chemistry. It was clear as crystal. I had at the time, and
still have to this day, a boyfriend that I really love. Chances are, you
have a boyfriend who rocks your world. I may have been a home
wrecker for Halloween, but that doesn’t make me one in reality.
I actually went home and told my boyfriend about you. I
called you my Bus Boyfriend. I normally do not tell my boyfriend
about random men who want to hit on me but who, true to LA
style, don’t try. But I told him about you because I wanted him
to be well aware that other completely random men want to be
physically close to me because this is something that even jealous
boyfriends are often prone to forgetting. You probably know, Bus
Boyfriend, what it’s like when you’re with a boy for a couple years.
If you know he’s faithful, you start thinking, “Hey, I’m the only one
who has access to this booty...” Then you start thinking, “Hey, no

one else really thinks about this man but me.”
My boyfriend took notice when I told him about you; he felt
the slight threat that was implicit in our public transportation
liaisons, as platonic as they may have been. He fucked me really
hard for a couple of weeks, realizing that he was damn fortunate to
have access to this poon.
The last Wednesday I saw you, I noticed you too late. It was a
really bad morning for me, Bus Boyfriend. I arrived at the bus stop
before having that necessary first cup of soy caramel macchiato.
The weather was foggy and so was my brain. You got on the bus
and chances are you looked to see if our eyes would lock, because I
felt a pair of eyes burning a hole in the side of my face. By the time
I was jolted out of my reverie by your smell wafting by, you had
passed by and had seated yourself farther back.
For one entire stop I contemplated getting up and sitting next
to you. Then a gigantic, hairy man with an apparent allergy to soap
wedged me in against the window and it was all I could do to keep
from straining my neck while looking back at you and hoping that
you would at least get up and stand behind me so I could smell
something besides the 300-pound armpit pushing up against my
cheek.
Then, after that Wednesday, nothing. I never saw you on the
bus again. I never got to smell your pleasant scent again (OxyClean? Bounce? Something from King Taco?) I instead got to
smell a variety of other, less desirable scents that other passengers
had coated themselves in - urine, B.O., cigar smoke, booze-breath,
copious amounts of Chanel No. 5. Do you know how many people
are hot messes when they get on the bus, Bus Boyfriend? On
the Metrolink to Los Angeles, 15 percent of the passengers are
intoxicated, and they smell like it. And they sit next to me, Bus
Boyfriend, like you used to sit, only significantly closer and with
more balls and less shame.
Besides drunks, I have had the honor of sitting next to bitchy
little teenage gay boys who lisp loudly into their cell phones. Old
ladies with severe whooping cough. Girls who can be no older than
12, dressed like mini-porn stars and put their feet up on the back
of the seat in front of them. Children whose faces are completely
obscured by snot. Lastly, young white men who think they are big
black men and attempt to speak “jive.” (“Yo, yo, yo, man - that mah
SHIT!”)
Bus Boyfriend, where have you gone? Please return and save
me from this misery! I don’t want you sexually. Hell, I don’t even
want to talk to you - you can’t even discuss the main storyline of
a popular novel and you probably don’t want to know any more
detail about my inner ear and motion sickness. I just want to feel
that odd, exciting tension again. And I want to smell you. You
were my bus lover, my ego-boosting little bowl of potpourri. Please
come back. When you were around, no crackhead could touch me.
Due to the ever-so-slight threat that your presence created, my
boyfriend nailed me more often and more sincerely than any other
time. You made transportation tolerable and you improved my love
life.
If you got a job deeper in LA, I forgive you. If you graduated
from Cal Poly Pomona, I congratulate you. But if you bought a car
and now drive yourself to school, shame on you!
—PhilliP Cao

POLITICALLY INCORRECT

-

Youth struggle with feelings of apathy and indifference

60 Substance Spring 2012

I

n the United States, where 61.6 percent of the votingeligible population took part in deciding the 2008
presidential election, political strategists have always
looked for ways to increase turnout. If a citizen were likely
to vote for a candidate, but is unenthusiastic about it, then
they are less likely to make the effort to vote. For young voters,
the challenge of getting them interested and involved in politics
is even greater.
George Mason University’s United States Elections Project
found that 61.6 percent of eligible citizens voted in 2008.
Shortly after the election, the Pew Research Center said that
although young voters comprised only a slightly larger share
of the total voting constituency compared to 2004, 66 percent
of voters aged 18-29 supported Barack Obama in that year’s
election. That is an increase from 54 percent who supported
fellow Democratic Senator John Kerry in 2004, ultimately
helping Obama to win the White House. Although the
report stated that young voters were not necessarily the most
important demographic that led to his victory, they also made
for enthusiastic volunteers.
Jerry Allen, professor of political science, said that turnout
is more important to victory than people sometimes realize.
“A lot of people say, ‘Well, a lot of tea party members aren’t
all that excited about [Republican presidential candidate] Mitt
Romney but they still like him better than Barack Obama, so
wouldn’t they just vote for them anyway?’ That’s just not always
the case,” he said.
Allen added that turnout is important because being
excited about a candidate or proposition is the surest way to
ensure it, and that it helps encourage people to spread the word.
Han Li Chow, 22, biology major, said that he is not
involved in political activities as much as he should be. He said
that he was unenthusiastic about voting in November, but said
that involvement is still important, even if he himself has been
imperfect.
Chow pointed to simple apathy as one of the reasons that
politics may be comparatively unpopular among young adults.
“A lot of people just want to go home from school or work and
see what’s on ‘Jersey Shore’ while forgetting about everything
else,” he said. “They don’t realize things going on like SOPA,
PIPA and CISPA, the bills that are intended to limit piracy but
also threaten our liberties of what we can do online. They don’t
see how their votes can affect their debt, their schools, and their
families.”
Chow said that he does not see how politicians could affect
a social issue he feels strongly about: the portrayal of characters
of Asian descent in Western media.
“For a long time we Asian men were goofy and
unattractive, and the women would fall all over the white men,”
he said. “I understand why most politicians don’t go after things
like that, but it leaves me wondering how to get involved.”
Another issue that holds back interest among young
people is the amount of partisan politics and the overall hostile
environment. A March 2011 Gallup survey found that just 18
percent of Americans approved of the job Congress was doing.

At the time, they were unable to pass a federal budget with a
rapidly approaching deadline to renegotiate the national debt
ceiling.
“That was ridiculous,” Chow said. “There was $30 billion
in spending cuts in that budget and Republicans wouldn’t
approve it. I’m not saying the budget would have been perfect
but isn’t that exactly what they want, reducing the deficit
through cuts?”
Chow added that the amount of focus on issues that
are unimportant to the majority of people is a frustrating
distraction. “I’m not the biggest Obama supporter and I can
understand disliking him, but they should do it based on his
policies,” he said. “If he’s a Muslim, it shouldn’t matter; if he was
born outside America, that’s a silly technicality, anyway.”
Nicholas Bueno, film and television production major, said
that he is a member of the Independence Party of America, a
political party founded in 2007.
“I like the goals that they set,” he said. “It’d be great to
reduce partisan bickering and get to the more important issues,
rather than debates on nonessential social controversies set up
by people further on the fringes.”
Bueno added that the party may not be successful in
electing a candidate, but that is not the only measure of a third
party’s success.
“Third parties can make an impact in other ways,” he
said. “It doesn’t have to start with the high bar of winning an
election.”
Allen suggested that lack of interest in politics, and the
inability to deal with the associated hostility, may be due to
having less immediate reasons to fight and stand for one’s
beliefs.
He added that while it is a good thing that today’s
generation in developed countries face comparatively much less
hardship, they may have lost something in that exchange.
“Maybe students protesting the Vietnam War in a society
where those opinions may not always be popular ultimately
strengthened them as adults,” he said.
Allen cautioned that though the politics of today were
more hostile, there would always be people pushing others with
negativity.
“Look no further than Joseph McCarthy, the senator who
ruined countless people’s lives by perpetuating the ‘Red Scare’
and creating an environment where good people are arrested on
unfounded fears of communism,” he said.
He added that it takes reasonable people to fight the
tension and hostility in politics, even though it sometimes seems
like an insurmountable goal to get the infighting and shouting
to stop. “Civil discourse is an important part of American
democracy,” he said.
For young people hoping to become more politically active,
Allen said they should consider starting with specific causes.
“There are at least a few things worth spreading,” he said.
“Talk about them, and see if you like the discourse that results.
You may be surprised.”
—Matthew Medina

-

The rise of for profit colleges and the decreasing value of degrees

DIPLOMA MILLS

I

magine that it is your big graduation day and college is finally
over. Walking, diploma in hand, a disease-infested pigeon
flapping its wings high above has a point to make. Before you
can take cover, a giant acidic green and white bird shat lands
squarely on the middle of your degree—do something quick
because it’s burning through the paper. This is how New York-based
attorneys, Jesse Strauss and David Anziska, might describe the
worth of a Juris Doctorate from New York Law School, a school
that ranks 135th best and leaves the average student $146,230 in
debt. The chief problem according to the attorneys is that NYLS has
misrepresented the employment profiles of their graduates and “has
caused prospective students to misjudge post-graduate employment
prospects and commit to earning a NYLS degree which has less
marketplace currency than they reasonably had expected.” Strauss
and Anziska sought $225 million in a class-action suit brought in
front of judge Melvin Schweitzer of the New York State Supreme
Court. Strauss and Anziska are launching a nationwide campaign
against 20 other law schools. But outrageous student loans and
poor employment statistics are not an isolated problem for older
students seeking a professional degree in the prestige obsessed law
field.
Younger undergrad students are at risk of entering school
with great ambitions while leaving with big loans by way of the
newly popularized for-profit online universities. These schools, with
unknown reputations and promises have been the interest of the
Department of Education (DOE). One such school is the University
of Phoenix Online (UOP), which boasts a 4-percent online
graduation rate and has had to pay according to the DOE. Probes
by the DOE into UOP have found several improprieties including:
recruiters who created an entire FAFSA application for a student,
recruiters who misrepresent and claim that FAFSA and Pell Grants
would cover the entire cost of their UOP education, when it does
not cover all costs. The same probes led to $9.8 million dollar
settlements between UOP and the U.S. Government. One caveat
with for-profit schools is that they do not qualify for government
research grants because they do not engage in research. Instead,

62 Substance Spring 2012

the for-profits have to rely on federally backed student loans—UOP
being one of the largest recipients.
However, despite unfavorable practices against title IV of the
Higher Education Act of 1965 which covers the administration of
federal financial aid, early evidence suggests that employers do not
mind that in a turbulent economy. According to Arnita Champion,
a 47-year-old business developer at Mt. SAC’s Career and Transfer
Services, evidence that a flexible model for education is actually
conducive to some non-traditional students, especially in light of
the potential CSU admission freezes.
“Some employers want a degree,” Champion said. “In my
experience, I have not noticed any prejudices or biases against
students with online undergraduate degrees.” Champion also
suggested that students will want to supplement an online degree
with relevant field experience to see if their intended major is
really a fit. In other words, being a Starbucks barista is not going
to necessarily shed any light if your bachelors’ in communication
with a concentration in marketing is really a fit for you; whereas,
interning at Starbucks headquarters probably would.
Whether the turbulent economy or the ardent boom of the
Google-it generation, institutions of higher learning like UOP and
NYLS by design, are less restrictive in their admissions process, a
characteristic that could attribute to a higher than normal attrition
rate. Another thing affecting online schools and new or less eminent
law schools is the practical reality of experts in the field who went
to brink n’ mortar institutions. Although enthusiastic about online
schools, Champion warned that employers would be weary if a
candidate got all of their degrees online. “Definitely don’t get your
Ph.D online,” Champion said.
In his closing statement dismissing the class action suit, Judge
Schweitzer said, “As reasonable consumers of a legal education,
would have to be wearing blinders not to be aware of these wellestablished facts of life in the world of legal employment.”
The well-established facts are that after law school, the
majority of graduates struggle to find meaningful legal employment.
—BRIAN TRINIDAD